Summary: "You can't pretend you were in love with me back when . . . when you were trying to kill me."

Pairing: Spike/Buffy

Author Notes: Originally posted in Livejournal as a sort of bonne bouche

Completed: November 2003.

Story Notes: This story is a stand alone PWP, but might take place some time after "Lovingkindness," or somewhere in The Bittersweets-verse. It's not important.

Disclaimer: Joss creates, I borrow

" . . . God, that was so good." She rolled over, smiled.

He gave her a sly look. "Am I the best you've ever had?"

"I—" Her first instinct was to answer yes . Yes, he was, because Riley had never really satisfied her, he'd been all right as far as he went, but he'd never touched the part of her that opened so questingly to Spike's least glance, touch. Parker, and the couple of other one-offs, were barely memorable.

But Angel . . . Angel was her first. First love, first lovemaking, the unbearably sweet culmination of that terrible night when she'd thought he was going to have to go away from her for months. God, he'd been so—big. Big and slow and tender and strong, so strong and sweetly enveloping that after she got over the initial surprise, the awkwardness, she'd been able to just let everything go, slip into pure sensation, pure bliss. She'd never been so happy in her life as she was that night . . .

. . . until the morning, when her glorious night gave way to a reality that made her so deeply ashamed of herself she still couldn't really think about it head-on. She couldn't remember making love with Angel and not be turned back by that taint. How he'd humiliated her. How degraded she'd felt. How her love had brought forth a killer.

Even knowing it wasn't really him still didn't lift the odor of enormous wrong from her remembrance of what came after.

The room was dark, but Spike could, as she was always forgetting, see in the dark just as well as in the light. He loomed over her now, his fingers brushing her lips, her cheeks. "Didn't mean to send you there, love. Don't think about him."

"Don't think of a white elephant." She sighed.

"Your first time . . . God, I wish I'd had that instead of him. Would've left you nothing to feel sorry about afterwards."

She couldn't help it, she let out a guffaw, and switched on the light. "Hello, Spike ? Mortal enemies at the time?"

He looked sheepish, sat up and hugged his knees. "True enough, but . . . you can doubt it if you like, but I was sorry about it even then, hearin' Angelus talk trash about you. Wasn't right."

His words warmed her, but she couldn't help reminding him of something else, the memory of which still rankled. "Oh, you were very sorry about it two years later, right, when I was kicking your ass all over campus and you were saying all that about me being a lousy lay?"

"Well, yeah. Knew it was a sore point, was trying to get to you. Mortal enemy, like you said. Doesn't mean I didn't privately think it was a shame."

She felt a blush rise. Why did the idea seem so . . . surprising, nearly embarrassing? "Spike. You can't . . . you can't pretend you were in love with me back when . . . when you were trying to kill me. I know you weren't."

He looked genuinely stricken, which just confused her more. "I know. It's just I . . . I love you so, I wish I'd been your lover forever. Having you now, it . . . you overwhelm me, Buffy, your sweetness, your goodness to me. Look at you, you've brought me into your house, your bed, you're sittin' beside me now with my kisses on your neck and a pussy full of my spunk, an' you look at me like you don't hate me. Do you know how that makes me feel? God, I adore you. I love you so much—"

Whatever more he would've said was subsumed when she swarmed over him, pressing her mouth to his, raking her hands through his hair, pinning him to the mattress.

The best I ever had . . . she couldn't imagine this kind of frank crazy passion with anyone else, not even—not even Angel, somehow. It was special to Spike, and the sharp remnants of despising him, and him hating her, wanting to conquer her and have her blood, only made that passion sharper.

All the next day she thought about what he'd said. Part of her found the whole wanting to take her virginity thing hopelessly pathetic, with a whiff of the offensive. It was . . . kind of male chauvinist. And, yeah . . . Victorian.

Of course, so, she was learning, was he.

But romantic too, that he wished she'd had a better time.

Not that she was kidding herself that was all there was to it. Part of it was hating that Angel had gotten there first—as he had with Drusilla, as he had, Buffy imagined, with a lot of things Spike wanted. And another big part of it was just that male thing about wanting to be the first to plant the flag.

Still, what harm? That night she put on one of her mother's old flannel gowns. Spike, already in bed, raised an eyebrow when she stepped in to the room.

"Know I don't exactly keep you warm, Slayer, but dunno what you want to get yourself up like that for."

She drew the gown's collar tight against her throat and shrank against the door.

"What're you doing, Buffy? Come to bed."

"I . . . I think you don't have anything on under there."

He glanced down at his blanketed lap and then back at her. "Uh . . . yeah. Always sleep naked. You know that. Nothing here you haven't seen a hundred—"

She turned her face away, shielding her gaze as well with her hand. "I don't think I can look. I've never seen a man before, like that . . . . I'm scared. I know I'm supposed to do what you say, but . . . I'm afraid of what will happen."

Buffy peeked at him through her fingers. Spike frowned, started to speak, then stopped. Slowly, a grin formed on his lips.

He threw back the coverlet then and started towards her.

Shrinking back, she let out a little cry and threw out an arm to ward him off. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her against him. She felt his cock stiffen and rise against her hip as he tipped her head back to kiss her.

She pretended to push him weakly away. "Please—I've never done this before. Be gentle with me—"

"Gentle as doves, my treasure. Gentle as snow falling in the still of night." He swung her up then in his arms and carried her the few steps back to bed. Still holding her, he kissed her again, his mouth soft and undemanding. The wicked grin he'd taken on when he understood what she was doing had changed into something else, a soft, nearly wistful smile full of tenderness.

"Never happen." He kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin and then her mouth.

"Never had this privilege before," he murmured, joining her on the bed, touching her softly on her breasts and arms and thighs through the thick flannel. "I'm sensible . . . of the honor."

She almost laughed. He came up with the most crackpot things to say, sometimes, and his accent was different, more like the way Giles talked . . . not that she wanted to think about Giles at this moment. Spike's hand slid down her leg to the gown's hem.

She let out a squeak. "What—what are you doing?"

"Need to take this off now, love. You an' me need to be in a state of nature."

"Oh . . . well . . . all right. But—! Don't look."

He grinned again at that. "I need to look, sweetness. An' you need to look at me."

"I—I did! I—oh—!"

He'd taken her hand and put it on his cock. She pretended at first to be shy, covering her eyes with the other hand, even as she couldn't resist beginning to caress him in a way that was rather out of the character she was playing.

"See it, Buffy, see what happens to it in your pretty fingers?"

"It gets . . . it gets even bigger."

"It does."

"I think—it might be too big for me."

"Not this. Take off your gown now, love."

She turned shyly away again, and raised her arms up, waiting demurely for him to help her. Spike let out a little laugh as he drew the nightie off and tossed it across the room.

"Let me see you. There, I knew you'd be pretty, but you're even more—" He scattered kisses on her shoulders, her breasts, her arms. "Lie back now, my girl."

"Like . . . like this?" She stretched out, keeping her ankles crossed and covering her breasts with her hands.

"A bit like that. You might let me—"

"Oh!" She slapped his hand away as it curled around her mons. "I don't think you should touch me there . . . oh!" He'd slipped a finger through the dense curls and found the already quivering tip of her clit. She sighed and let her legs fall open. "Oh . . . what are you doing? It makes me feel so strange—!"

"You're so wet," he murmured, leaning over her, his finger rubbing so fast and light that she imagined a hummingbird's tongue exciting her. "I'm going to taste you, petal. Open for me a little more . . . ."

His mouth made her feel crazy and helpless, so for a little time she forgot the game they were playing, writhing and moaning with her usual abandon. But when he slipped three fingers inside her she remembered herself and stiffened.

"Oh! Oh—what are you doing? What is that?"

"Does it feel nice, sweetheart?"

"Ye—yes. I guess so."

He pressed kisses on her heaving belly, fucking her harder with his fingers, his thumb pressed tight to her clit. The climax caught her unaware—somehow she'd imagined she wouldn't let herself go that far, at least not yet. But Spike knew her too well; when he wanted to bring her off, there was no resisting. Gulping air, wriggling on his still moving hand, she said "I feel so strange—! What is this? What you doing to me?"

He smiled down into her face, his eyes full of appreciation of their game and the reality behind it. "I'm making you come. I'm making you shake with pleasure, and it's only the beginning. In a minute I'll fuck you, and you'll be a woman then, and you'll be my mistress, and we'll have ourselves a time, and not just once. Say you want me inside you."

"Oh—! Ahhh—!"

He withdrew his hand suddenly, leaving her panting, and pressed a kiss on her mouth. "Say you want me, Buffy. You have to say it, pet, before we can begin."

Quivering, she gazed up at him, and couldn't resist throwing her arms around him. "I want you! Just—be very very gentle with me—!"

"Spread your legs wider, sweetheart. Open yourself for me—"

Suddenly she remembered how Angel had said nearly the same thing to her—and how he'd done almost exactly what Spike was doing now, hovering over her, not yet making her bear his weight as he ran his cock lightly up and down her drenched channel, making her shiver and clench—she remembered that in that moment of complete willingness and surrender she'd been taken by a bolt of fear that nearly made her scream, and Angel had felt it, and paused, kissing her and touching her there softly with his fingers until she was calmer, until she was ready. Even so he'd hurt her, filling her that first time, his weight on her. She'd felt proud of the pain, and of his cry when he came.

Now Spike was doing nearly the same, and she didn't want him to guess that this was making her think of things she'd tried hard to repress. So she drew his mouth to hers, kissed him, whispered, "Do you want to be inside me, lover? Come inside me now. I'm ready. Slowly—! Oh God—oh God, it's too much—slower!"

Spike paused then, just as Angel had, and smoothed the hair from her brow, but he looked at her with quite a different face, full of misgiving. "Buffy, love," he whispered, "don't. It's all right. It was so good of you to fulfill my silly fantasy, but I don't want to hurt you, not like that, not at all." She understood that he was talking not about the pretended pain of their physical union, but about the hurt of memory, and that the game was finished now.

She wrapped her legs around him then, and touched his face with her fingertips. "Spike, this with you . . . it is a first time for me. It's the first time I've ever been with a man I love—so much!—when I could have him more than once. When I could sleep with him and wake up with him, and live with him. I've never had that before, and I'm so glad I do and that's it's you, Spike."

A sob escaped him. He seemed far away in some mental place she couldn't reach.

To call him back she began to move beneath him. In a moment he sighed and smiled, falling into her rhythm. He began to chant her name under his breath, as they moved faster and faster. Then he spent with a powerful jerk, his whole body quivering and tense and motionless on hers before he collapsed.

"Christ. God, what a fuck—" He raised his head. "You didn't—"

"You'll take care of that in a bit. You always do. Rest now. I love the way you fuck me, Spike. None of the others—none of the others were so good for me as you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "Is that really so? You wouldn't fib about it?"

"It's true. Lover—it's all true." She stroked his hair. His head was deliciously heavy on her chest. "You make me feel things that—you make me happy."

"An' me." He paused. "That was some kind of Penny Dreadful melodrama you just put on . . . you tryin' to tell me that's how you acted the first time?"

"No. I was doing the Blushing Victorian Bride. Going for maximum Spike-excitement-level, not method acting." She paused. Murmured. "Y'know, I really like it when you say I'm your mistress."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That's sexy. And when you said you'd be gentle as doves . . . as snow falling in the night . . . when you talk to me that way, I feel it, I feel it all up my spine, and here—" She took his hand, touching his fingers to her lips, "and here—" to her breasts, "—and here," pressing them between her thighs. "I love the things you say to me. Talk to me—" She sat up and swung around to straddle his head. Dipped her slick flesh against his mouth. Spike's tongue swarmed out to meet her. "Talk to me a little more."

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